Such is a brief account of the history of the inception and growth of this now well known theory. From 1837 to 1840 no geologist was bold enough to admit its truth; now no one is bold enough to deny it, except in unimportant particulars. It has stood the test of years of violent controversy. It stands now among the established facts of science. “In some recent geological writings,” says Dr. Thomas Hill, “it is assumed as a doctrine accepted from time immemorial, yet we all know that forty-five years ago Agassiz was the only man who had ever peered into the silent desert of that new thought.” Sir Roderick Murchison, the great English geologist, once said of the glacial theory: “I have been for twenty years opposing Agassiz’s views, and now I find that I have been for twenty years opposing the truth.” The establishment of this theory has a significance not thought of originally by its propounder. In one of his lectures on Brazil he thus states the case: “If this doctrine be true, you see at once how this intense cold must have modified the surface of the globe, to the extent of excluding life from its surface—of interrupting the normal course of the vital phenomena, and preparing the surface of the earth for the new creation which now exists upon it. I attach great importance in a philosophical point of view to the study of this ice period; because, if demonstrated that such was once the condition of our earth, it will follow that the doctrine of transmutation of species, and of the descent of animals that live now, from those of past days, is cut at the root by this winter, which put an end to all living beings on the surface of the globe.”
Archbishop Usher, when crossing the Channel from Ireland to England, was wrecked on some part of the coast of Wales. After having reached the shore, he made the best of his way to the house of a clergyman, who resided not far from the spot on which he was cast. Without communicating his exalted station, the archbishop introduced himself as a brother clergyman in distress, and stated the particulars of his misfortune. The Cambrian divine, suspecting his unknown visitor to be an impostor, gave him no very courteous reception, and said: “I dare say, you can’t tell me how many commandments there are?” “There are eleven,” replied the archbishop, very meekly. “Repeat the eleventh,” rejoined the other, “and I will relieve your distress.” “Thenyouwill put the commandment in practice,” answered the primate: “A new commandment I give unto you, that you love one another.”
By LULIE W. WINCHESTER.
It is my purpose in this paper to explain the duties of a nurse, and above all to endeavor to influence those of my sisters who are asking the old question, “What can I do?” to enter this field of usefulness, and make honored and helpful places for themselves in the ranks of this profession. It seems to me that the mission of the physician and nurse is more closely allied than any other, to that of our Savior, who went about doing good, who came not to be ministered unto but to minister, who walked throughout Judea, Samaria and Galilee, laying his hand on the poor, sick and oppressed, with its life and health-giving touch.
The Bellevue Hospital Training School in New York City is the pioneer, being the first one established in the United States. It was commenced as an experiment in 1873 with six nurses, and has succeeded so well as to now accommodate sixty, who have the charge of fourteen wards. It is the largest, and in many respects the best, offering a greater variety of disease, and therefore giving the nurses more knowledge and experience in the treatment of the various ills to which humanity is subjected. Soon after the establishment of this school a similar one was started in St. Catharines, Canada, by the late well-known Dr. Mack. He sent to England for three trained nurses who took charge of the school at the General and Marine Hospital. It was very small at first, but now accommodates fifteen or twenty nurses. For a long time it was the only school in Canada, but within the last few years one has been established in Toronto. The course of training at the St. Catharines school is somewhat longer than in others, viz.: Three months on probation, and a term of three years, with a monthly salary and house and street uniform provided.
The school at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston is widely known for its excellence, as also the Buffalo General Hospital School. In San Francisco there is but one small school at the Women’s and Children’s Hospital on Thirteenth Street. Indeed, it is the only one on the coast, and finds employment but for six or eight nurses. It seems strange that such an enterprising city as San Francisco should not take more decided steps toward the establishment of a larger school, with more variety in nursing. But it is a work that will grow and spread as the necessity for skillful nursing becomes more apparent. In all these schools the term is about the same, a month on probation, and a two years’ course, with a monthly salary and house uniform, which is usually a seersucker dress, long full white apron, and dainty white muslin or linen cap.
The training consists of lectures by the medical staff and superintendent, on anatomy, physiology, hygiene, and the general principles of nursing, the observation and recording of symptoms, the diet of the sick, and the best methods of managing helpless patients. Instruction is given in the wards on the dressing of wounds, the application of blisters, fomentations, poultices, cups and leeches; the use of catheters and administration of enemas, methods of applying friction, bandaging, making beds, changing and drawing sheets, moving patients and preventing bed-sores, and the application of trusses and uterine appliances.
At the end of the term examinations are held, and the successful ones receive their diplomas. Some choose to follow the vocation of private nurses, others seek a position as head nurse in some institution, while others are by their superior intelligence and education to become in their turn superintendents of other training schools.
The qualifications necessary for a young woman to procure entrance on probation are a sound constitution, no defects in either hearing or sight, a common school education, and a good moral character. Certificates of the above must be presented—that of health from a physician.
Exceptions are sometimes made in the matter of sight and hearing, as for instance, one nurse in the institution I was connected with, was totally deaf in one ear; the other was perfectly well, however, and she was a very successful nurse. There were several who were obliged to wear glasses, but did not seem at all unfitted for their duties. But generally the rules are strict, as must needs be, in order to keep up the good name and reputation of a school.
Other qualifications are also indispensable in order to become a good nurse, although they are not always specified in the demands. Gentleness in manner, voice, touch and footstep is important. What is more annoying than a sharp, impatient voice, heavy step and touch? The poor patient’s nerves are all set on edge by such an attendant. I remember one poor woman in my ward, wasted almost to a skeleton with consumption, who asked me once while bathing her, what another nurse’s occupation had been before entering the hospital. She said the nurse was kind-hearted enough, but oh! so loud and hard and heavy about everything. I replied that I believed she had worked on a farm in the old country. “I thought so,” said the patient, “it seems as if she were more used to handling animals than human beings; she bathes me like she was rubbing down a horse or scrubbing the kitchen table.” And that is true of many. There is nothing more soothing than a light, delicate, but firm touch in handling invalids.
Another thing to be cultivated is an even temper. Remember that an invalid is hardly to be considered a responsible person, no more so than a child, so bear all his whims and caprices with cheerfulness and equanimity. A bright, cheerful, sunny nurse or doctor is often better than medicine. I do not mean constant joking and laughing, but a prevailing atmosphere of sunshine.
They are blessed indeed who are born with a bright, hopeful nature. But it can be cultivated—I know from experience—by dwelling in constant communion with Him who is the light of the world.
Another thing that Miss Nightingale lays great stress upon is the habit of observation. A nurse should be quick to notice all changes in the temperature, respiration and appetite of the patient, together with numerous other changes and variations which can not here be mentioned. A quick, observing nurse, is an invaluable aid to a physician. This faculty is natural in a great many persons, and it may be cultivated.
In attending private cases the nurse must take great heed to her ways, not to be too forward or talkative, and above all to guard sacredly all family matters which may come under her observation.
The motto of the ancient Spartans at their public dinners, “No word spoken here, goes out there” (the door), might well be adopted by her. Of all things, a gossiping nurse is most odious, and she soon loses her reputation.
Here is the routine for one day at the hospital I was employed in: The nurses rise at six, dress, and put their rooms in order, and hurry down to breakfast, which is served at half-past six. At seven they are in their wards, to relieve the night nurses. The first thing is to serve breakfast; after that is cleared away comes the bathing of helpless patients, and making the beds; then the long ward is swept twice from top to bottom, and every thing picked up, dusted, and put straight. Wounds are then dressed and medicines given out, and all is ready for the doctor’s visit at ten. After that comes the milk or beef-tea lunch for those who require it, and general waiting on and attending to the various wants of the patients (which are always numerous, whether real or fancied). Dinner is served in the ward at half-past twelve, and half an hour later for the nurses. After dinner more medicines are given out, and the time is filled with the general attendance, for of course some patients need a great deal more care than others; fomentations and poultices must be applied, the bed of a restless patient re-made, a broken limb bathed and re-bandaged, etc. Supper comes at half-past five, and after that the night work begins, making the beds smooth and comfortable for the poor, tired bodies, giving out medicines, and putting the wards straight for the house physician’s visit. The head nurse goes from bed to bed with him, giving a report of each patient, that suitable directions may be given the night nurse. At eight o’clock the nurses go off duty, tired perhaps, but happy in the consciousness that they have done their best. Every nurse has an hour off during the day, for rest or exercise in the open air, with an afternoon once a week.
And now let me appeal to the female portion of the tens of thousands of readers ofThe Chautauquan, at least to those of them who want a vocation. Will you not take up this work? You will find a rich reward in so doing, not only financially (though it is a paying business), but the gladness and content you will feel in doing your share toward relieving the suffering and distress in this world will amply repay you for the hard and disagreeable part of your labor—for it has its disagreeable side, I admit. No one has greater opportunities for doing good than the loyal, consecrated Christian nurse. Just think of the many cups of cold water that can be given, the sweet word of Scripture that can be whispered in the ear of some sufferer, to prove a soft and comforting pillow for his weary head. Think of the bread of life it will be your privilege to break and distribute to the helpless and needy. Think of the dying who can be pointed upward, and led to place their trust in Him who is the Resurrection and the Life. If you have a talent for music, it can be used to advantage in the hospital ward. There is no limit to the opportunities you will find opening before you. We can not all be Florence Nightingales or Sister Doras, but we can be our best selves.
By WALLACE BRUCE.
“Woodstock” closed with the return of Charles the Second from long exile, and his hearty receptionen routefrom the cliffs of Dover to London. “Peveril of the Peak” opens with a mixed assembly of Presbyterians and Cavaliers convened at Martindale Castle in honor of “The Blessed Restoration of His most Sacred Majesty.”
As might be premised, the gathering is not entirely harmonious. By wise foresight they are constrained to enter the castle by different gates, and to take their repast in different rooms. In this prologue to the story the reader notes the art with which Scott illustrates history. “By different routes, and forming each a sort of a procession, as if the adherents of each party were desirous of exhibiting its strength and numbers, the two several factions approached the castle; and so distinct did they appear in dress, aspect and manners, that it seemed as if the revelers of a bridal party, and the sad attendants upon a funeral solemnity, were moving toward the same point from different quarters. The Puritan party consisted chiefly of the middling gentry, with others whom industry or successful speculations in commerce or in mining had raised into eminence—the persons who feel most umbrage from the over-shadowing aristocracy, and are usually the most vehement in defense of what they hold to be their rights. Their dress was in general studiously simple and unostentatious, or only remarkable by the contradictory affectation of extreme simplicity or carelessness. The dark color of their cloaks, varying from absolute black to what was called sad-colored, their steeple-crowned hats, with their broad shadowy brims, their long swords, suspended by a simple strap around the loins, without shoulder-belt, sword-knot, plate, buckles, or any of the other decorations with which the Cavaliers loved to adorn their trusty rapiers—the shortness of their hair, which made their ears appearof disproportioned size—above all the stern and gloomy gravity of their looks, announced their belonging to that class of enthusiasts, who, resolute and undismayed, had cast down the former fabric of government, and who now regarded with somewhat more than suspicion that which had been so unexpectedly substituted in its stead.”
The paragraph in which Scott portrays the Cavalier is none the less graphic: “If the Puritan was affectedly plain in his dress, and ridiculously precise in his manners, the Cavalier often carried his love of ornament into tawdry finery, and his contempt of hypocricy into licentious profligacy. Gay, gallant fellows, young and old, thronged together toward the ancient castle. Feathers waved, lace glittered, spears jingled, steeds caracoled; and here and there a petronel or pistol was fired off by some one, who found his own natural talents for making a noise inadequate to the dignity of the occasion. Boys halloo’d and whooped, ‘Down with the Rump,’ and ‘Fie upon Oliver!’ The revelry of the Cavaliers may be easily conceived, since it had the usual accompaniments of singing, jesting, quaffing of healths, and playing of tunes, which have in almost every age and quarter of the world been the accompaniments of festive cheer. The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a different and less noisy character. They neither sung, jested, heard music, nor drank healths; and yet they seemed none the less, in their own phrase, to enjoy the creature-comforts which the frailty of humanity rendered grateful to their outward man.”
It seems almost marvelous that Scott, who loved rank and ancestral dignity, could lay aside his prejudices and speak so eloquently and fairly of the Puritan. His history of Napoleon is generally regarded unfair and distorted; and it could hardly have been otherwise following so closely upon the great triumph of Wellington; but we, as Americans and descendants of those who gave up home and comfort to establish a free government, have reason to feel grateful that the greatest novelist, or, if that is objected to by any of our readers, the greatest historical novelist that Britain has produced, was born and reared with an unprejudiced mind.
It may seem strange to the reader of history to find the Cavalier and the strict Presbyterian, so different in principle, now hand in hand in policy; but the reader must remember that the party which brought Charles to the block consisted of two factors, styled by the haughty Countess of Derby with indignant sarcasm: “Varieties of the same monster, for the Presbyterians hallooed while the others hunted, and bound the victims whom the Independents massacred.” Misery according to Shakspere makes a person acquainted with strange bedfellows; and the politics of those days made England acquainted with strange coalitions. One choice only remained to that distracted nation—Charles the Second or the rule of the army; and to the common sense of discordant factions a solid government seemed preferable to anarchy. To the sensible Presbyterian the divine right of kings was better than the less divine right of petty leaders. The Independents, so powerful under Cromwell, were weak under the government of his son Richard. The people demanded a free Parliament, and a free Parliament meant the restoration of the Stuarts. As Macaulay tersely puts it: “A united army had long kept down a divided nation; but the nation was now united and the army was divided.”
Scott, also, in passing, refers to the ejection of the Presbyterian clergy, which took place on St. Bartholomew’s day, when two thousand Presbyterian pastors were displaced and silenced throughout England; even in church matters the rule held good—that the spoils belonged to the victors: the great Baxter, Reynolds and Calamy refused bishoprics, and many ministers declined deaneries, preferring starvation and a clear conscience to the wealth and flattery of a corrupt court.
Five years pass by and we are transported with Julian Peveril, son of the old knight, from the peaks of northern Derbyshire, which form the water-shed of central England, to the picturesque island of Man, the origin of whose name is still a mystery, whose ruins carry the visitor back beyond the legends of King Arthur and the dominion of the Romans to the dim twilight days of the Druids. To this strong sea-girded fortress the brave Countess of Derby fled after the execution of her husband at Bolton le Moor, and she has left in history a character for courage and hardihood allied to cruelty, in the execution of Edward Christian, who in her absence had yielded up the island to the Parliament forces. It is here that the young Peveril dreams away his boyhood, sharing his studies and recreations with the son of the Countess.
In this story of diverse characters, the two pillars, which might be said to uphold the arch, under which the long procession of the narrative passes, are the elder Peveril and his wealthy neighbor Bridgenorth. Alice Bridgenorth was reared under the same roof with young Peveril; and strange to say, in the difference arising between the elder Peveril and Bridgenorth, she also is transported to the home of relatives in a romantic glen of the island of Man. But the course of true love was not destined even in this little island to run entirely smooth; for the old spirit of Bridgenorth is awakened to restore England to the greatness of the days of Cromwell. He endeavors to arouse the same zeal in young Peveril; he had just returned from the south of France, and had many stories to tell of the French Huguenots, who already began to sustain those vexations, which a few years afterward were summed up by the revocation of the edict of Nantz. He had been in Hungary, and spoke from personal knowledge of the leaders of the great Protestant insurrection. He talked also of Savoy, where those of the reformed religion still suffered a cruel persecution. He had even visited America, more especially he said: “The country of New England, into which our land has shaken from her lap, as a drunkard flings from him his treasures, so much that is precious in the eyes of God and of his children. There thousands of our best and most godly men—such whose righteousness might come between the Almighty and his wrath, and prevent the ruin of cities—are content to be the inhabitants of the desert, rather encountering the unenlightened savages, than stooping to extinguish, under the oppression practiced in Britain, the light that is within their own minds. There I remained for a time, during the wars which the colonies maintained with Philip, a great Indian chief, or sachem as they were called, who seemed a messenger sent from Satan to buffet them. His cruelty was great—his dissimulation profound; and the skill and promptitude with which he maintained a destructive and desultory warfare inflicted many dreadful calamities on the settlement. I was by chance at a small village in the woods, more than thirty miles from Boston, and in its situation exceedingly lonely, and surrounded with thickets. It was on a Sabbath morning, when we had assembled to take sweet counsel together in the Lord’s house. Our temple was but constructed of wooden logs; but when shall the chant of trained hirelings, or the sounding of tin and brass tubes amid the aisles of a minster, arise so sweetly to heaven, as did the psalm in which we united at once our voices and our hearts! An excellent worthy, long the companion of my pilgrimage, had just begun to wrestle in prayer, when a woman, with disordered looks and disheveled hair, entered our chapel in a distracted manner, screaming incessantly, ‘The Indians! the Indians!’ In that land no man dares separate himself from his means of defense, and whether in the city or in the field, in the ploughed land or the forest, men keep beside them their weapons, as did the Jews at the re-building of the temple. So we sallied forth with our guns and our pikes, and heard the whoop of these incarnate devils already in possession of a part of the town. It was pitiful to hear the screams of women and children amid the report of guns and the whistling of bullets, mixed with the ferocious yells of these savages. Several houses in the upper part of the village weresoon on fire. The smoke which the wind drove against us gave great advantage to the enemy, who fought, as it were invisible, and under cover, whilst we fell fast by their unerring fire. In this state of confusion, and while we were about to adopt the desperate project of evacuating the village, and, placing the women and children in the center, of attempting a retreat to the nearest settlement, it pleased heaven to send us unexpected assistance. A tall man of a reverend appearance, whom no one of us had ever seen before, suddenly was in the midst of us. His garments were of the skin of the elk, and he wore sword and carried gun; I never saw anything more august than his features, overshadowed by locks of gray hair, which mingled with a long beard of the same color. ‘Men and brethren,’ he said in a voice like that which turns back the flight, ‘why sink your hearts? and why are you thus disquieted? Follow me, and you shall see this day that there is a captain in Israel!’ He uttered a few brief but distinct orders, in the tone of one who was accustomed to command; and such was the influence of his appearance, his mien, his language, and his presence of mind, that he was implicitly obeyed by men who had never seen him until that moment. We were hastily divided into two bodies; one of which maintained the defense of the village with more courage than ever; while, under cover of the smoke, the stranger sallied forth from the town, at the head of the other division of New England men, and fetching a circuit, attacked the red warriors in the rear. The heathens fled in confusion, abandoning the half-won village, and leaving behind them such a number of the warriors, that the tribe hath never recovered its loss. Never shall I forget the figure of our venerable leader, when our men, and women and children of the village, rescued from the tomahawk and scalping knife, stood crowded around him. ‘Not unto me be the glory,’ he said, ‘I am but an implement, frail as yourselves, in the hand of Him who is strong to deliver.’ I was nearest to him as he spoke; we exchanged glances; it seemed to me that I recognized a noble friend whom I had long since deemed in glory; but he gave me no time to speak, had speech been prudent. Sinking on his knees, and signing us to obey him, he poured forth a strong and energetic thanksgiving for the turning back of the battle, which, pronounced with a voice loud and clear as a war trumpet, thrilled through the joints and marrows of the hearers. I have heard many an act of devotion in my life; but such a prayer as this, uttered amid the dead and the dying, with a rich tone of mingled triumph and adoration, was beyond them all—it was like the song of the inspired prophetess who dwelt beneath the palm-tree between Ramah and Bethel. He was silent; and for a brief space we remained with our faces bent to the earth—no man daring to lift his head. At length we looked up, but our deliverer was no longer amongst us, nor was he ever again seen in the land which he had rescued.”
This beautiful story, true to fact, and so dramatically told, comes upon the reader with a pleasant surprise, and I have quoted it at length not only for its intrinsic beauty, but also as it commemorates a fact in the early history of our country. That venerable man was Richard Whalley, one of the great soldiers of England under Cromwell, and one of the judges who condemned Charles to the block. After the restoration he fled to Massachusetts, and was secreted in the house of the Rev. Mr. Russel at Hadley. It will be remembered that three of the regicides fled to this country—Dixwell, Goffe and Whalley. Dixwell is buried in New Haven in the rear of Center church. Goffe and Whalley are buried in Hadley. It is claimed by some that it was Goffe instead of Whalley who came to the rescue of the village. Scott in his notes assigns the honor to Whalley.
Returning to our story we find that affairs of great moment on the part of the Countess call the young Peveril to London. He finds his father and mother arrested for supposed complicity in a Romish plot. We see the city in great excitement, heated and inflamed by the villain Oates—an episode which Scott weaves gracefully and naturally into the warp and woof of his story. He draws a picture of Colonel Blood, who made the well-known attempt on the crown-jewels, a bold, resolute man, who strange to say, after many acts of violence, lived to enjoy a pension from the king. We see the gay Rochester, still remembered for his celebrated epigrammatic epitaph on Charles the Second, composed at the king’s request, but too pungent, and too true to be relished.
“Here lies our sovereign lord the king,Whose word no man relies on;He never said a foolish thing,And never did a wise one.”
“Here lies our sovereign lord the king,Whose word no man relies on;He never said a foolish thing,And never did a wise one.”
“Here lies our sovereign lord the king,Whose word no man relies on;He never said a foolish thing,And never did a wise one.”
“Here lies our sovereign lord the king,
Whose word no man relies on;
He never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one.”
We see the Duchess of Portsmouth, and many another lady of rank, who had more regard for ancient titles than for ancestral virtues; we see George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, a man of princely fortune and excellent talents, tossed about in a whirlpool of frivolous pleasures, whose character the great Dryden embalmed in vigorous lines:
“A man so various, that he seemed to beNot one, but all mankind’s epitome;Stiff in opinions—always in the wrong—Was everything by starts, but nothing long;Who in the course of one revolving moon,Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.”
“A man so various, that he seemed to beNot one, but all mankind’s epitome;Stiff in opinions—always in the wrong—Was everything by starts, but nothing long;Who in the course of one revolving moon,Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.”
“A man so various, that he seemed to beNot one, but all mankind’s epitome;Stiff in opinions—always in the wrong—Was everything by starts, but nothing long;Who in the course of one revolving moon,Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.”
“A man so various, that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind’s epitome;
Stiff in opinions—always in the wrong—
Was everything by starts, but nothing long;
Who in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.”
Through the imprisonment of Julian Peveril we are made acquainted with the Tower and Newgate—a sad picture, but somewhat relieved by Scott’s humor in the portrait that he gives us of the well-known doughty dwarf, Sir Geoffrey Hudson; we see London given over to monopolies, to stock-jobbing, and South Sea speculations; we attend a conventicle held in a secret hall of the city, and trace a conspiracy designed to place the Duke of Buckingham upon the throne; until our story, one of the longest and most carefully prepared of the Waverley series, concludes with a court scene in Whitehall, where the faithful love of Edith Bridgenorth and Julian Peveril is announced to the satisfaction at least of two individuals.
“Old Mortality,” our next volume, deals directly with the Covenanters of Scotland. It will be remembered that Charles the Second, on a former expedition into Scotland, before his restoration, had deliberately sworn to support the Solemn League and Covenant. The Presbyterian Church, alive to its own interests, sent an agent to General Monk, who had declared for a free Parliament, and was on his way to London, holding as it were in his hand the destiny of Britain. The agent sent by the Scottish Church was James Sharpe, a man well educated, logical in mind and commanding in character; but, false to his trust, he bartered his principles for power, and received as the price of his infamy the title and office of Lord Bishop of Saint Andrews, and Primate of Scotland. “The great stain” says Scott, in his Miscellaneous Prose Works, “will always remain, that Sharpe deserted and probably betrayed a cause which his brethren entrusted to him. When he returned to Scotland, he pressed the acceptance of the See of Saint Andrews upon Mr. Robert Douglas, affecting himself no ambition for the prelacy. The stern Presbyterian saw into his secret soul, and, when he had given his own positive rejection, demanded of Sharpe what he would do if the offer was made to him? He hesitated. ‘I perceive,’ said Douglas, ‘you are clear—you will engage—you will be Primate of Scotland; take it then,’ he added, laying his hand on his shoulder, ‘and take the curse of God along with it.’ The subject would suit a painter.” Subsequent history shows that the curse was fulfilled.
In the general joy attendant upon the restoration of Charles, the Parliament thought that the people would submit to almost any indignity or inconvenience. By a single sweeping resolution they annulled and rescinded every statute and ordinancewhich had been made by those holding supreme authority in Scotland since the commencement of the civil wars; the whole Presbyterian Church government was destroyed, and the Episcopal institutions, to which the nation had shown itself averse, were rashly and precipitately established. Thousands of ministers, who, for conscience sake, could not sign the Act of Conformity, were driven from their pulpits. Mere boys and dissolute young men were hastily summoned from schools and colleges to administer spiritual comfort to an indignant people. The solemn league and covenant, which had been solemnly sworn to by nobility, clergy and people, with weeping eyes and uplifted hands, ay, sworn to by the King himself, was burned at the cross of Edinburgh by an edict of Parliament. The Episcopal court severely punished all who left their own parish church to attend private meetings known as conventicles. A persecution like that of the early Christians at Rome was brought home to the descendants of Knox and of Calvin. As the earlier Christians were compelled to hold their meetings in caves and catacombs, so a persecuted people, in the bright dawn of the Reformation, were compelled to fly to the hills and heaths for a refuge, to lift up their banner in solitary and mountain places in order to foil
“A tyrant’s and a bigot’s laws.”
“A tyrant’s and a bigot’s laws.”
“A tyrant’s and a bigot’s laws.”
“A tyrant’s and a bigot’s laws.”
Such was the state of the country at the opening of our story in May, 1679. The west of Scotland is aroused. Archbishop Sharpe is murdered in his carriage, by a party of men, of whom Balfour of Burley is the leader. The battle of Loudon Hill is won by the Covenanters, who increase daily in power until a force of six thousand men are assembled at Bothwell Bridge. Engaged in discussing church polemics, they entirely neglect the discipline necessary for success. Without leaders or guidance they are routed by the Duke of Monmouth. Four hundred men are killed. Twelve hundred prisoners are marched to Edinburgh, and imprisoned “like cattle in a fold” in the Greyfriar’s churchyard. Several ministers are tortured and executed, and many prisoners sent as slaves to the plantations. Henry Morton, one of their leaders, as seen in the story, is exiled. Edith Bellenden, one of the royal party, remains true to him. He returns, after long years of absence and military honor, and readers of fiction can readily guess how the story terminates without reading the postscript by the author.
Such is the rude draft of this great romance, which Coleridge pronounces the grandest of Scott’s novels. It is, in fact, a novel that can not be well analyzed. We could speak of Lady Margaret Bellenden, who never forgot that Charles the Second took breakfast with her on his way to meet Cromwell at the field of Worcester; we could speak of the good natured Major, brave, noble, and generous; of Cuddie and his mother; ay, of Guse Gibbie, unfortunate in all fitting regimentals; of the miserly uncle of Henry Morton; of the cannie waiting-maid of Edith, who felt safe in the triumph of either side, as she had a lover in both armies. The reader will laugh and weep at these characters as he meets them in the pages of “Old Mortality.” But it is for us to refer merely to the historical features about which these characters are grouped; to note the ruggedness of Scotch character, destined to triumph at last, and bring victory out of defeat; a character which, perhaps, “shows most to advantage in adversity, when it seems akin to the native sycamore of their hills, which scorns to be biased in its mode of growth, even by the influence of the prevailing wind, but, shooting its branches with equal boldness in every direction, shows no weather side to the storm, and may be broken, but can never be bended.”
In considering the motives, the ambition, the enthusiasm, or fanaticism of these men, we might stir up controversy. We know it was their lofty purpose to convert all England to the Presbyterian faith; and, whenever they were lifted to power, they were quite as arbitrary as the Episcopacy. It was true of both parties that they suffered persecution without learning mercy. Each side felt that, in pushing its own creed, it was doing the Lord’s work; but in this we all delight to-day, that both sides produced brave men, tenacious of their own rights, who struggled on until in our own generation the opposing forces have been adjusted, and out of chaos and confusion the different systems of faith or theology move serenely and calmly in their own spheres around one central and enduring light—the Creator and Father of all.
The Covenanters were indeed the connecting link between the two great revolutions, which beheaded Charles the First and exiled James the Second; and, whatever our prejudices, or “whatever may be thought of the extravagance or narrow-minded bigotry of many of their tenets, it is impossible to deny the praise of devoted courage to a few hundred peasants, who, without leaders, without money, without any fixed plan of action, and almost without arms, borne out only by their innate zeal, and a detestation of the oppression of their rulers, ventured to declare open war against an established government, supported by a regular army and the whole force of three kingdoms.”
It is sometimes claimed that Scott is over partial to Claverhouse—that he paints the man as a hero. If so he has poorly succeeded, for I have yet to meet a reader of “Old Mortality” who is fascinated with the portraiture of that cruel man. Scott makes him what history declares him to be, a cool and calculating soldier, bitter and unrelenting, a man without faith, and with no ambition save worldly glory. It rather seems to me on the contrary, that Scott for the time lays aside his own traditional sentiments as he reports the burning words of these Covenant preachers, as they paint the desolation of the Church, describing her “like Hagar watching the waning life of her infant amid the fountainless desert.” His poetic nature seems moved by brave men repairing “to worship the God of nature amid the fortresses of nature’s own construction.”
There are two dramatic scenes in the volume, which can not be overlooked or forgotten: Burley in the cave, with his clasped Bible in one hand, and his drawn sword in the other. “His figure, dimly ruddied by the light of the red charcoal seems that of a fiend in the lurid atmosphere of Pandemonium striving with an imaginary demon.” The other scene reveals Henry Morton, overpowered, disarmed, bound hand and foot, facing a clock which, at the hour of twelve, was to strike his doom. “Among pale-eyed and ferocious zealots, whose hardened brows were soon to be bent, not merely with indifference, but with triumph upon his execution—without a friend to speak a kindly word, or give a look of either sympathy or encouragement—awaiting till the sword destined to slay him crept out of the scabbard gradually, as it were by straw-breadths, and condemned to drink the bitterness of death drop by drop. His executioners, as he gazed around him, seemed to alter their forms and features, like specters in a feverish dream their figures became larger, and their faces more disturbed; the walls seemed to drop with blood, and the light tick of the clock thrilled on his ear with such loud, painful distinctness, as if each sound were the prick of a bodkin inflicted on the naked nerve of the organ.” The maniac preacher, in an attitude of frenzy, springs upon a chair to push forward the fatal index; the party make ready their weapons for immediate execution, when a noise like the rushing of a brook over the pebbles, or the soughing of wind among the branches stays the executioners; it was the galloping of horse, the door is burst open, and Henry Morton is saved.
Men seem neither to understand their riches nor their strength—of the former they believe much more than they should; of the latter much less. Self-reliance and self-denial will teach a man to drink out of his own cistern, and eat his own sweet bread, and to learn and labor truly to get his living, and carefully to expend the good things committed to his trust.—Bacon.
Translated from the French forThe Chautauquan.
Among the many interesting charitable institutions of Paris there is none more noteworthy than the private asylum for the blind conducted by the Sisters of St. Paul. This work was begun in 1850, by a woman of great piety, energy and sense, Anne Bergunion. Two blind girls were confided to her care. She proved to be remarkably adapted to training the peculiar characters which the nature of this affliction almost invariably causes. Gradually there grew up a large institution under her supervision. A writer in a late number of theRevue des deux Mondeshas given an exhaustive account of the work. The details are most interesting and suggestive. After describing the home of the Sisters and their work, he says: “They have reserved the least comfortable part of the building for themselves, and have given over to the blind the large rooms where the circulation is free, and there is opportunity for exercise. Passing from the convent into the asylum for the blind, I entered the workshop. Twenty workingwomen, whose ages ranged from twenty-five to fifty, started up at the sound of strange footsteps. The sight was pitiful; the faces and eyes seemed expressionless. There was nothing to warm up their terrible pallor, and in their attitude there was a restless attention, as if they were troubled by a presence which they could not define nor understand.
“There is great difference between the different forms of blindness. There are eyes that have been paralyzed, which appear living, but yet are dead. They show neither joy nor sorrow, but remain fixed. A blind person does not move the eye when questioned, but by an unconscious gesture turns the ear to the speaker. Others are projecting, and seem almost bursting from their watery eyelids; they look like those marbles of whitish glass with which the children play; others again are almost invisible, showing only an inflamed line between the nearly closed eyelids. With some the lids are immovable; others continually flutter, like the wings of a frightened bird.
“I saw no coquettishness in the arrangement of the hair, in the pose of the head or the body. Shut up in darkness, they are ignorant of the resources of feminine graces; hearing and touch teach them nothing of them. Their tidiness is extreme, however. If well taught, a blind person can not endure on his garments a particle of dust or drop of water; it wounds his sensitive touch.
“The most of the inmates were born blind, or at least became blind so young that they have no remembrance of the light. For them the sun is bright, not because it shines, but because it is warm. There are some among them who have been made completely blind by an accident or a criminal action. Here is one whose eyes seem to have been torn out, and eyelids to have closed over the void. When she was quite a little girl, she owned a tame finch; at night it slept in its cage, but all day it was at the side of its young mistress, now on her head, again on her shoulders; it drank from the same glass with her and took the food from her lips. One day the eyes of the child attracted it; it picked at them and destroyed the sight. There is another who had a pet chicken. She had been accustomed to taking it in her little arms, rocking it, cuddling it, adoring it; they played together until suddenly, one day, the chicken, dashing itself against the face of the child, tore out both its eyes.
“I have noticed among the inmates a woman whose eyes are white; a faint shade marks the outline of the iris. She seems to be about fifty years old; her complexion is sallow, and above her prominent forehead the brown hair is traced by silver; her mouth has a sad, almost bitter expression; her form is thin, and her bony fingers move very swiftly as she knits. When twenty-three years old she was sought in marriage by a young man for whom she did not care. He insisted, she refused. One evening he came to see her with a gun on his shoulder, and demanded: “Will you marry me? Yes, or no.” “No,” she replied. He drew his weapon and fired. The entire charge hit the upper part of her face. When they had picked her up and wiped away the blood, they saw that she was blind, and hopelessly so. Before the court the fellow did not lie. “It is her own fault. I will marry her all the same, if she is willing.” The poor girl did not think it best to give her hand, when asked in this way. She found the Sisters of St. Paul, and has been with them for twenty-five years.
“It seemed very silent to me in the work-room. I am sorry for it. Conversation is as necessary to the blind as light for those who see; to them silence is night, noise is light. This is so true that in the Institution for Blind Young People, the black cell, the cell in which unruly members are confined as a punishment, is one where no sound is heard. I believe that conversation should always be allowed. The blind find an inspiration in it which gives zest to their work.
“Music is their great passion, and some excel in it; the ear is most sensitive; at a sound in the least out of tune their foreheads will contract painfully. A woman sang for me here. She was about thirty-five years old, with pale face and fine features. She sang a fandango intended to be gay, but which was very mournful, coming from her discolored lips. Her voice was true but weak and worn. The poor girl is a worn-out artist. She had been dragged from city to city; had “done” the watering places and springs, had given concerts, and never touched the proceeds. When she had ruined her voice the manager had abandoned her. The poor child, hungry and cold, sought the St. Paul Asylum. She has a shelter here while she lives. She knits, sings, and, perhaps, sighs for the time when she heard the crowd clap after she had sung her piece.
“A blind Sister, with one who has her sight, looks after the workshop. There is but one kind of work here—knitting; it seems to have become mechanical; they knit without thinking, as one breathes without knowing it. Four of the young girls sang a quartette for us, but they knit all the time without ceasing; the blind Sister beat time with her head, but continued to knit; the women in the shop turned toward the singers, listened, and knit. The blind Sisters teach this work. It takes about six weeks to make a skillful knitter, and initiate her into all the mysteries. They earn very little money in this way, however. The wool and patterns are furnished by the contractor, and for the knitting of a pair of child’s socks they will pay but a few cents. It takes a skillful knitter at least four hours to do the work, and then the work must be finished off by some one who sees, the buttons put on, the buttonholes made, and the ornaments attached. In spite of the great industry of the workers the shop earns in this way only about 1,300 francs per year. The great curse which burdens the blind, above all blind women, is that they can not earn a livelihood. It is safe to say that were it not for the Sisters of St. Paul all the persons whom I saw there would have died of hunger. There has been an effort made to find a trade for blind women by which they could at least earn their bread; it has not succeeded. The affliction is so heavy that it seems to paralyze their energies. One trade which seems peculiarly suitable for them, which is learned quickly and requires only a little attention, is that of making lines for fishing, and the like; the tools needed are not costly, and the trade is easy. Many of the blind practice it, and some are very skillful; yet, by the busiest day’s work, they can not earn more than fifteen cents. It is ridiculous to think of furnishing food, clothing and lodgings, on this sum. There has been a great deal of ingenuity spent in trying to teach them trades which require great skill; tact, however, can never take the place of sight. This fact has been forgotten by those who have tried to profit by the services of the blind, rather than put the means of earning their daily bread into their hands. An attempt was made to teach them to turn articles, but the resultswere curious rather than useful. The trade which they are taught should be as easy as possible; the method should be simple, the tools few and easily handled. Knitting is the model work for them.
“Passing from the work-room we enter the children’s department. There are three classes, corresponding to the ages of the pupils: the intermediate, primary, and the school for the very young. Every one is blind, and as in the work-room, they knit, or rather learn to knit in the intervals between their lessons and play. I find that the same methods for teaching reading and writing are used as are common in institutions for the blind. The instruments for writing are the point, the tablet, and the guide invented by Louis Brille. This system satisfies the intellectual needs of the blind, but does not permit them to enter into communication with persons who have not studied the system. In this system each letter of the alphabet, each figure, each punctuation mark forms in relief a certain number of points. By pressing the ends of the fingers over the projecting points of these letters a blind person will read as rapidly as a person who sees will read the printed volume. Often I have seen the blind follow the lines of one of these books with his left hand, while with his right he reproduced it on M. Brille’s apparatus. A blind man named Foucant invented a very ingenious instrument composed of ten blunt points fastened in an iron triangle, and furnished with a spring. The instrument is mounted on a guide whose ten ends move in the groove of a frame. The apparatus moves on the guide from left to right, as in writing, and the guide moves up and down to mark the lines. The base of six points are placed in juxtaposition, and rest on a sheet of lead, the black surface of which is applied to a sheet of white paper; by striking the head of the point there is obtained a black point. By this means Roman letters are formed, each letter being composed of several points; in one word I counted fifty-eight. By this instrument some of the blind write very rapidly, and it is very valuable to them, as it gives them an opportunity to correspond with those who see; but this writing, clear as it is, has one great drawback; the blind can not read it. The impression produced by the stroke of the point is too feeble to be perceptible to the most delicate touch. After this invention, there still remained the problem of giving the blind a method of writing which could be read by them and by those who see. I believe that the problem has been solved. Count Jay de Beaufort has invented a very simple system. Abandoning the methods of Brille and Foucant, the Roman letters and the English writing, he has adopted a kind of heavy sloping style of writing which resembles the round hand, and is written wrong side to, like engravers’ and lithographers’ work. A little time and attention enables the pupil to master this style. A sheet of paper, which is at the same time solid and soft, is placed on a frame containing a tablet which is marked with deep, straight and longitudinal furrows. By these furrows a straight line is obtained, and the distance between them determines the height of the letters. A light cloth covers the tablet. When the paper is placed on the frame and over the cloth, a letter made on it will of course be raised. That is, the layer of cloth underneath the paper causes each mark to indent the paper without breaking it. With a point or style the letters are traced on the paper. When the page is detached and turned over, the raised letters appear, recognizable to the eyes, and to the touch of the finger. The blind greatly appreciate this system, which is superior to all that have been invented for them, for it is the only one which puts into their hands a sure means of communication with those who see. Count Jay de Beaufort kindly gives lessons at the Institution for Blind Young People, and among the Sisters of St. Paul has trained several teachers, who in their turn are instructing their pupils.
“The pupils that I saw in the children’s classes are not yet large enough to be set at Beaufort’s system. The studies taught there resemble those in all primary schools: Reading, writing, numbers, history and geography. They omit sewing, which is too difficult, and embroidery, which is impossible. Very often they have lessons in composition to teach them to unravel their thoughts and express them with precision, a thing which is difficult for those who see, but which must be very painful for the blind. I wished at one time to assure myself of the degree of advancement in the intermediate class, where the girls were from fourteen to sixteen years old, and I asked the three most advanced pupils to write an essay on a given subject—a walk into the country. Of course the subject was interesting only as it was being written on by the blind, and I hoped to find some expressions which would denote the peculiar feelings which they experienced. But, no; their instruction had come from those who could see, and they employed the language of their teachers, not even modifying it to fit their infirmity. The three essays were very little different in form. They all described a trip which they had taken to the suburbs of Paris. “It was a beautiful morning of spring time.” “It was a beautiful morning in the month of May,” was the general tone; but I shrugged my shoulders in impatience when I read: “What a delightful prospect met our view.” It made me think of a composition prepared by a deaf mute in which he spoke of “The symphony of the song of the birds, and the musical murmur of crystalline springs.” In their desire to appropriate feelings which they can not understand, these poor people try to reproduce a language which to them can mean nothing.
“There is much that is strange about the dreams of the blind. I was struck with this while talking with some young people in the Institute for the Blind. They told me complacently of what they “saw” in their dreams. I was puzzled to know whether the dream of a blind person was like that of one who could see. I have found that the blind who have had their sight up to the age of reason, for a long time preserve the dreams of the time when they could see, as if the stored-up images reproduced themselves in the night. Little by little these images grow feeble, become dull, confused, and end by disappearing after fifteen or twenty years of blindness. As for those who are born blind, their dreams are in black. I convinced myself of this at Saint Paul, where I often talked with three blind Sisters, who were very intelligent. They explained to me that the phenomena of their dreams were borrowed from the sense of touch and hearing, and never from sight.”